


I pray you don't hurt too much

by lovelorn_petrichor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cuddles, Draco Is Harry's Stability, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Draco Malfoy is a Good Boyfriend, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Harry Is Draco's Stability, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry Potter is a Good Boyfriend, Healing, M/M, PTSD, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Stability, Unresolved Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 01:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18488479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelorn_petrichor/pseuds/lovelorn_petrichor
Summary: In which monsters are battled without weapons





	I pray you don't hurt too much

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuccSatansCucc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuccSatansCucc/gifts).



> This has been far too long in the making. Every draft I made either never saved, or got deleted immediately after saving. 
> 
> Apologies for the tardiness, friend, and prepare to hurt ;)

Nightmares. 

 

Terror wraps itself about his torso like a garrotte, cutting deep into his already heavy scars. Across his back, chest, stomach, shoulders- wounds that healed, a trauma that didn’t. And the boy that soothes them sleeps soundly beside him, dead to the world. 

 

Or not. 

 

As when he awakes, kicking, screaming, crying- clawing at the tattoo that burns at his wrist as if scratching hard enough will make it disappear- sturdy arms wrap around him, a solid warmth pressing to his back, legs circling his trembling frame. Whispers push against the skin of his neck, reassurance found in the melting syllables. 

 

Tears. 

They burn. 

 

And he is a salve. 

 

Wiping away the molten salt, kissing at the corrosive tracks they left behind. Thumbing away acid and replacing it with a honey-lemon sweetness on the peaks of his cheekbones. 

 

“I can’t get it out of my head,” he whispers, broken. 

 

“I know,” is the return. Two syllables crammed with an intense need to heal, to calm, to soothe- and the inherent inability to do so. 

 

Words with no meaning are murmured into the inky abyss of the morning, the rich baritone easing the winding ache in Draco’s bones. He melts against the man behind him, too afraid to close his eyes, too tired to hold them open. So he settles on Harry’s chest, watching the steady rise and fall, noting the way the muscles in his bicep move with every brush of porcelain hair. 

 

Hesitance. “You don’t have to talk about it,” 

 

Never pushing, never pulling. A constant presence- a still lake lapping at his ankles, the quiet essence of calm. That was Harry in all his glorious patience. 

 

Take a breath. “I know,” 

 

Hours creep by under the facade of minutes, Fleeting yet cripplingly stagnant in unison. Slowly- scattered amongst gentle, brushing touches, palms ghosting over the slope of shoulders and the dips of toned arms, and promises of safety, of hope- the sun rises. A great fire that scorches the skies and sets the undrawn curtains ablaze. Light chases away the darkness and the nightmares seem further away than they did. Lips sweep the expanse of his nape, warm breath dusting across his skin, carrying with it a question. 

 

“Okay?” 

 

Draco raises a hand, caressing the deep tan one resting on his stomach. He takes in a breath like gaseous courage and nods, once, twice. 

 

“I hope so. ”

  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  
  


The flashes come in the light of the sun, blinding, burning, splitting at his skull. Broken glass is a smashed window and the delighted squeals of a child are the pleading screams of the dead, the dying, the mourning. 

 

Too bright, too real, he doesn’t know which is which- fantasy settles its grip on reality, fiction rewriting fact, dusting it with a deep set fear. 

 

A voice, laced with quiet affection, silences the white noise threatening to deafen him. Someone else's words wrap themselves around his lungs, constricting and relaxing- a manual reason to breathe. 

 

_ “ _ _ Then I widened the search _ _ , _

_ traced the scarring back to its source _ _.  _

 

_ To a  _ _ sweating _ _ ,  _ _ unexploded mine _

_ buried deep in his mind _ _ , around which _

 

_ every nerve in his body had tightened and closed. _

_ Then, and only then, did I come close.” _

  
  


Palms made of paper skin, delicate as confetti and tissue-thin press against his own, hollow bones and prominent knuckles bending to encase his trembling hands. 

 

Forest green meets gunmetal grey, warmth finds warmth, and with this welcomed heat comes a blanket- a shield, shaped to every plane of his soul- to protect from the cold, unforgiving hands of his nightmares. 

 

“You are here. I am here. What’s done is done and never to be done again,” Draco offers him, holding him steadfast in the present. 

 

The future is unknown, the past too painful to remain in. 

When a place becomes inhabitable, it is human nature to find somewhere new- and the knife of never letting go stops cutting so deep when you stop gripping so tight. Draco pulls him into the safety of the abyss, and through the fog, he tries to forget the horrors he once lived. 

 

“Never to be done again,” he whispers, resting his thought-heavy head on a steady, steely shoulder. 

 

An agreement, a smile- knowing and entirely too feeling, and a simple question that maybe isn’t so simple. 

 

“Okay?” 

  
  


And, for once, he nods. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written to 'Rush' by Lewis Capaldi


End file.
